


Kindred

by menofsweaters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Gen, M/M, Serial Killers, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menofsweaters/pseuds/menofsweaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean would do anything to hunt with his little brother again. John's sudden disappearance after a violent argument provides the perfect opportunity to reunite with Sam. But, as the hunts continue, Dean's behavior becomes more dangerous and erratic and the brothers finds themselves pursued by demons, ghosts, and terrible secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badgerempress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerempress/gifts).



**CHAPTER ONE**

 

John had already made his way through nearly half a handle of the cheapest whiskey their forged credit cards could buy when Dean opened the door. The hotel room – like most of the dingy places they spent the night – had a stale, moldy smell, accompanied by tacky yellow wallpaper and cheap flowered curtains. But hey, at least it wasn’t a pine box.

“Burgers,” Dean said by way of greeting, tossing a grease-stained bag on one of the beds. John sat up with a grunt, bleary-eyed, and started riffling through the bag.

“Ketchup?” John asked.

Dean shrugged and reached for the bag. “Sorry, they were out.”

“Shit.” John started shoveling fries and half of a cheeseburger into his mouth, swaying slightly on the bed and looking irritated. Dean grabbed his own burger and ate quietly, surveying his father. John was like this most nights these days – drunk, or at least half-way there. If they weren’t actively out hunting something, John spent the night nursing a bottle of whatever turpentine he could scrounge up.

Dean supposed it wasn’t so strange. After all, his father had a lot of things he’d probably like to forget about, a lot of painful memories that could use numbing. Dean took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“So I think we oughtta tell Sammy about this demon.” He did have to specify which demon – John already knew. He tried to make it sound casual, off-hand, and pretended to focus his attention on the burger in his hands rather than his father. Dean snuck a glance upwards at John, who was giving him the harshest glare his red face could muster.

“We’ve had this discussion, Dean,” he said gruffly. “Sam is not involved in this.”

Dean felt a familiar anger flare up in his belly, hot and sharp, at his father’s words. It just wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t right, surely his father knew it wasn’t right, too. They’d been hunting the evil creature that took their mother and engulfed their home in flames for longer than either of them would care to remember, and now they finally were ready to track him down. Sam would want to know, Dean was sure of it, even if he had left them behind to go to college.

“Sam would want to know,” Dean said quietly, after a few moments of thought. His father slammed his fist down on the nightstand, causing Dean to jump.

“Dammit, Dean!” he growled. “We are not talking about this again! Sam _left_ us.”

Dean knew that he should leave it at that. John was stubborn to a fault, and any disagreement was seen as betrayal. Still, he knew that what his father was saying was wrong. Sure, Sam had stopped hunting. He left that life behind to go to some college. He wanted to be a _lawyer_. Sure, it pissed Dean off, but Sam was still his brother. Nothing would ever change that.

He knew he should stop talking, but some defiance rose up in his throat. The thought of Sam made him feel... insubordinate.

“She wasn’t just yours, you know.” It was barely a whisper, but Dean knew that John heard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said, Mom didn’t just belong to you!” The words burned in his mouth as Dean watched his father’s face slacken in shock. “We all loved her. We all miss her. She belonged to all of us. That includes Sam.”

Dean looked down as he continued to speak. His voice wavered slightly and he hated it. John’s momentary silence made him foolishly believe that his words had somehow gotten through. Then his father’s fist collided with the side of his face.

“What the hell?!” Dean snapped, sprawling on the floor more out of surprise than physical pain. He could handle physical pain. Hell, he took a beating nearly every day. But he somehow never got used to his father’s blows. John fisted his shaking hands in Dean’s shirt and hauled him forcibly to his feet.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about Sam,” he hissed. He shoved Dean up against the thin wall of the motel room so hard that the picture above the bed shook and fell to the floor. It was a photo of an old farmhouse with dark windows and a worn gravel path leading to the door.

“Sam is _nothing_. He deserted us.”

John dug his knuckles into Dean’s chest and Dean felt his head crack against the wall again. There was a ringing in Dean’s ears. He tasted the familiar tang of blood at the corner of his mouth and smelled the acrid stench of cheap liquor on John’s breath. It nearly made his eyes water. He felt like he was drifting, dream-like, through the room until his father’s words brought him crashing back to reality.

“Sam is not a part of this family. He is not your brother any more.”

Something in Dean cracked and screeched and he watched his hands float up and painfully pry John’s fingers out of his shirt as though it was someone else. He saw his father’s expression change from fury to realization to regret, even embarrassment. He saw John open his mouth, mutter something, but there was no sound.

Then he felt his hands around his father’s neck.

* * *

 

The Impala was strange when he was the only one in it. It was peaceful, but unsettling. Dean relished in the warm roar of the engine and the sound of the wind whipping past, but he couldn’t deny that it was, well, lonely.

The drive from Lawrence to Stanford took 27 hours.


End file.
